This Remarkably Large Bed
by Little Obsessions
Summary: What happened after Dr. Pinderschloss and Tully kidnapped Morticia? Gomez can't quite help but worry. A story for Dissecting Pomegranates.


Morticia Addams sighed inwardly, closing her eyes in a moment of weakness. She breathed in the smell of too many people living closely together, too many individuals used to very ample space. She opened them to stare at her children, her darling children reduced to this. To think of him…it was too much. She grazed her hand over his forehead. This motel was disgusting. And her home, a few miles away from here, had been besieged by his ruthless lawyer. Who she had to admit she rather pitied, though at this moment all she felt was murderous hate. And Morticia, however debased, was not a woman prone to hate. She thought of her cold dressing room; all of those beautiful gowns and whips left behind. And the memories, the photographs, the heirlooms. The cold ivory pacifier that belonged to Wednesday, engraved with the snarling marks of her teeth. Morticia resisted tears. Resisted the thought of the priceless copies of 'Justine' and the folio she had of 'Titus Andronicus'. Such a gift for comedy, William Shakespeare. Tears only meant that Tully was winning. She steeled herself, and her movement, her spine straightening and her neck lifting, made Gomez grumble and push his face further into her hip. She marvelled at this feat, completed in the smallest single bed that she'd ever had the pleasure of sleeping in, with disdainful amusement.

She never thought her husband would anger her but his dejected wallowing was growing into a monster she simply could not ignore. He did nothing but snack on chips all day and watch mind-blending cable TV. The day that Morticia watched cable would also be the day when hell froze over, and as an avid believer in all that was dark and desolate, she knew it to be highly unlikely. Then she felt a pang of guilt for such utterly unfair sentiments towards the man she so adored. It may not have appeared it to those they knew, even those closest to them, but she had always been the strongest one in their marriage. Gomez was passionate, hot-headed (and blooded) but he was either manically excited or wilfully suicidal. In short he was all extremes, where she was all of the grey areas in between. She was the calm in his storm, to employ an over-used metaphor. They complimented each other perfectly, even in this awful situation. She looked down at him again, all mussed hair and frowning. He hadn't worn a laundered shirt for two days. This was not her husband, and she had to find a way to regain him. He was her constant challenge and one she so loved to her very core.

Their home reared majestically before her, towering over the vast grounds of their estate. Of what used to be their estate, she corrected mournfully. She slipped the driver the cash she had taken from her husband's wallet (for she never carried cash) and was grateful that Gate slid open without a groan. She rubbed the rusting iron affectionately.

Morticia loved the feel of supple leather against her wrists on the majority of occasions, on this occasion, Gomez had to concede, she was most likely not enjoying it. Or at least he hoped not. Though he was inclined to imagine that his wife liked anyone torturing her; he just hoped she hadn't made those visceral, glorifying sounds that she did under his hands. Could he blame her though? He had left her this past fortnight, not only mentally but physically too. Pushing the clawing thought from his mind, his eyes were drawn to the hearth, where a fire roared orange behind the wheel. Red hot pokers, a personal favourite of his. Though she didn't enjoy them as much; they were too simple, she once argued. He watched Pinderschloss brandish one, with uncommitted threat, at his wife. His knuckles whitened and Thing tapped him frantically on the shoulder. He knew he had to do something, otherwise he risked losing her. They didn't know her boundaries. And her death would be his one true torture. His only option, he thought to himself, would be a theatrical flip through the sash window.

The flashes of metal upon metal, the slash across the back of his hand, and the protestations of great love were all she could remember. Her confusion at Fester's sudden turn of favour was clouded as her husband urged her towards 'Greed', towards the tunnel. His grip on her hand, though tight, was comforting. Though she urged his 'brother' towards the bookcase he did not follow, and in all honesty, she was glad. Even in this situation, she was thankful to finally be alone with him. The hurricane in the library raged above them, and the dust fell in plumes from the damp ceiling. He said nothing to her as the concealed door groaned to a close behind them, but led her by the hand down the spiralling staircase. Her fingers wrapped around the gash on the back of his hand and she felt the warmth of blood. It felt delicious against her cold hand. She resisted the temptation to grip against him tighter. The sconces ignited as they walked deeper into the bowels of their home. The comforting groans were welcome music to her ears, and the space, oh! The delicious space. They reached the lake, and Gomez began removing the mooring ropes from the gondola with speed. She watched him as he did so, admiring the twist of the muscles in his back.

"The boat querida?" He motioned with his hands, rather impatiently.

She climbed in as he asked, using his hand to lever herself securely. There had been times when this journey was romantic, but she couldn't shake the strange tension humming between them.

"You were foolish to come here," he said suddenly, and his voice was louder than he obviously intended it to be. She looked at him curiously.

"Sorry?" She raised her face to him, watching his strong arms as they punted the oar into the depths of the water.

"You shouldn't have come back here Morticia," he grumbled, less confident this time.

"Oh," she folded her hands on her knees and the diplomacy of her gesture only showed him that he had quite misjudged the situation.

"I am sorry that I didn't consult you," there was ice in her unwavering voice, "But you were sleeping. And I had no idea you had some other immediate plan to take back what was rightfully ours."

He thrust the oar out onto the mooring and pulled the gondola nearer. He reached from the worn ropes and began winding them round the metal pole that was bore into the stone floor. He hooked the rope onto the end and hopped out. She loathed then her admiration of his agility. He proffered his hand again so she might exit the gondola.

"You shouldn't have taken action yourself," he said with some resolve.

She looked at him, and behind the blankness of her eyes he saw fire. The rigidity of her spine and angle of her chin screamed her ire. And only he could read it, for he was sure that only he had ever been on the receiving end of it. She wasn't understanding him, because he was not explaining himself well at all. Yet her rage left him wordless and powerless.

Her words cut through the air with infinite power, "And what were you planning to do..._mon cher_?"

She turned her back on him, and was swallowed by the darkness of the corridor ahead. The corridor wound like a subterranean snake throughout the bowels of their home. It was lined with many doors, each leading to small cobbled cells and larger chambers. On of these chambers led directly from, and to, the large bedroom that they normally shared. But he would not go back up there, until he could be sure that the hurricane had wreaked her delicious havoc.

He could only make her out in the darkness, "I was trying, I was..."

"You were wallowing," she answered over her shoulder, her eyes meeting his as she continued her steady pace, "And I, for one, was rather bored of sharing a single bed with you and my entire family."

She stopped suddenly, "Nor was I too delighted by the blatant injustice I feel was thrust upon us."

And then she opened the door to her left. It was lighter in here, and warmer, and he searched for his lighter in his pocket to light the candle on the side table. With the candle he travelled to one sconce and then used this to light the others. Finally, the light was aglow with comforting fire. The burst of light revealed the most debauched collection of toys that any one person might posses.

She stood still at the door, her arms folded over her chest. She hadn't quite closed the barred door yet.

"I could have lost you, have you thought of that?"

She turned lightly and closed the door gently behind her. When she turned to him, she seemed to have softened.

"It would not have happened," she murmured quietly, "That wouldn't have-"

"You don't know that," he said quickly, "She seemed entirely confident with that weapon, and I assure you, even you could not overcome that."

"I don't think that," she answered and all of her ire seemed to have dissipated into thoughtfulness.

"Perhaps you didn't think," he sat down on the edge of a large, satin covered futon and brushed a shackle away, "Perhaps you didn't think about the children, your mother...me? "

He motioned around the room, "I'd give up all of this, all the money, everything...if it meant I could have you forever, Morticia. I wouldn't endanger myself in a million years if it meant eternity with you. "

"I..." she seemed at a loss for words.

"You were wrong to come here. We speak so easily of death...you fail to recognise how much it would be the only true torture you might inflict on me? How?"

"I...never..." she moved from the door, unable to resist the temptation to run her hands over the heretics fork that was lying on a table littered with accoutrements.

"I never thought it would affect you so, Gomez."

He stood up, "I needed time, you didn't give me enough time. Talking would never have worked with them. And I had lost in the courts...I needed time, yet I woke and you were gone."

"I am so sorry, Gomez..." she came towards him, "I am so entirely sorry that I have made you feel so..." she searched for the correct word.

"I know I have not been who I usually am," he held out his hand, "But damn Morticia, you exhibited little patience."

"Something that I am not inclined to do," she whispered lightly, and a ghost of a smile curled at the corners of her red mouth.

"Sometimes you are too patient," he stepped towards her, filling the space between them.

"All this space and you still insist on being near me," she laughed lowly.

"Well, that was the value of our motel, no excuse for us to be apart," he slid his fingers along the neckline of her dress.

"Mmm, and yet my darling husband, you still managed it," she laughed lightly as she unbuttoned his waistcoat eagerly.

"I would be grateful if you could let it go," he pulled the shoulder of her gown down, and lowered his lips to her exposed skin, "I can't be all you want, all of the time."

"Oh but sir, how you try," she cradled his head in her hands, "I assume this means you forgive me my stupidity?"

"Yes. And mostly," he murmured as he pressed her against the stone wall, "I succeed."

"Nearly always, mon cher."

She had wanted to feel this for near on two weeks, to feel how intensely those words could affect him. But yet when she had said them, he had grumbled and returned to his Cable. Now, now he reigned down upon her with utter passion, lifting the hem of her dress up to her waist as he assaulted her neck with kisses. And she let him. She allowed him to take over entirely. And that senseless length of time were she was suspended in bliss was entirely worth it. And this chamber, this room in which she had experienced this so many times, only heightened the need for him. No instruments of pleasure, only him, the ultimate pleasure. She allowed him slide into her, eyes locked, mouths wordless.

Once spent, he led her up the winding, lengthy stairs to their bedroom. It smelled damp and homely, and she was grateful when he divested her on the satin sheets. He allowed her a moment of rest as he listened at the door. There was no noise, the hurricane had spent itself also and she liked to imagine that both the lawyer and the doctor (beacons of society, she thought not) were in their already -prepared graves. She had warned the children that they might need to prepare something. Then she wondered, what if it hadn't ended the way it had? Would it have mattered anyhow? Would their reunion have meant more than the destruction of their kingdom? She sat up, and reaching around her back began undoing the decorative buttons of her dress.

He came to sit beside her, "Perhaps you might want to reacquaint yourself with your closet, my darling," he finished removing his half unbuttoned shirt.

"Gomez," she stood up, "You looked so handsome when you crashed through that window. I'll have to have that repaired in the morning, though perhaps you like it?"

He laughed lightly, "Glad to be home?"

"Mmmm, Gomez you have no idea...gods, you are so handsome," she felt that she sounded like a giddy child. She bit his shoulder and began, for a second time that evening, to undo his belt. His hands slid onto her back, undoing the last few buttons.

"Sometimes I am too impatient," he growled as he traced small, light pink scars that whips had gifted her on her shoulder blades, "I fail to take in the smaller details."

"Gomez, it's not always the little details. The little details have always been my job, I like that you enjoy the big _details_."

"Mother, father," there was a knock on the door, and Morticia reached for his house coat, which had lay at the bottom of the bed from the time they had been gone.

He grumbled lightly but his delight was obvious when he threw open the door.

"All buried," Pugsley held up his shovel, and wiped a filthy had across his sweaty brow. Thing jumped up onto his shoulder, using his thumb to excavate the dirt from under his finger nails.

"But the library is a mess," Wednesday said tonelessly, "That is going to cost you a small fraction of your recently regained immensity of wealth."

"How observant you are, Wednesday," Gomez laughed with delight.

"Can we go to our rooms now?"

"Aren't you glad to be home?" Morticia asked as she tightened the dressing gown around her small waist.

"Delighted," Wednesday answered as she turned and began to walk down the hall. Her brother followed and Thing scampered behind.

He closed the door again and came towards the bed, he began to remove his clothing.

"We must get that library fixed," he laughed quietly, reaching out to touch her face, "Morticia?"

"Mmmm?"

"Morticia, don't dare fall asleep," he laughed lowly.

"I'm afraid our reunion has somewhat exhausted me," she murmured, curling onto her side, "I fear the relief I feel will do nothing but lull me into sleep...by the by, did you ever realise how large this bed was?"

He laughed wryly, "Very large."

"Will you settle the motel bill?" She asked, burying her head into his chest.

"In the morning querida," he vowed, "Never do it again Mortica, never let it happen again. It wouldn't matter, all of this, if I can't lie here, in this remarkably large bed, with you."

But already, for the first time in two weeks, sleep had claimed her.


End file.
